The Fifteenth of January
by Gypsie Rose
Summary: A pair of vignettes focusing on Boromir and Faramir: two brothers, two battles, one day. Solo piece by Rose.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a solo piece by "Rose." Movieverse, more or less, but with book overtones. Originally written for the Brothers of Gondor fanfiction contest at thewhitetower.net (under the name Cressida).  
  
1/15/04: Lightly revised in honor of the day ;)  
  
*******  
  
THE FIFTEENTH OF JANUARY by "Rose" of Gypsie Rose (gypsierose3000@yahoo.com)  
  
MORIA  
  
Orcs. Good.  
  
I can hear them chittering not far off. Two heavy, black-shafted arrows protrude from the iron-studded door in front of me, still quivering with the impact. There can be no doubt that battle is on its way, and I welcome the familiar tightening in my stomach.  
  
Down the dim corridor I can see the grey-skinned mass approaching now. Behind them is a hulking shape at least twice the size of a man, thrashing about with a crude club.  
  
"They have a cave troll," I tell Aragorn as we slam the heavy doors closed and look around for something to bar them. The elf swiftly tosses me a long-handled battleaxe. I pass it to Aragorn and turn to catch another, then wedge the second one through the door handles on top of the first. They will not hold for long, but they will buy us precious seconds to prepare. I suddenly realize that Aragorn, Legolas, and I are working together without a word of discussion, as if we had trained and fought together for years. I have no time to ponder this fact, but I am glad of it.  
  
The dwarf has leapt atop the white stone sepulchre and now stands in the shaft of sunlight which slants down from the high window. He hefts his axe, looking scarcely less eager for battle than I am myself. The hobbits have drawn their long knives; they look frightened, but resolute. Even old Mithrandir has unsheathed his sword. Its blade glows blue to match Frodo's. I've never seen him use one before; I never knew he had it in him. My opinion of him goes up a notch.  
  
The door won't hold much longer now. Already the orcs have broken a hole in it. Aragorn and the elf have stationed themselves before the others with their bows, shooting as many of the creatures as possible through that opening. I rotate my sword to loosen up my arm. I can feel time slowing, my senses sharpening, my body coming alive as if I had been half-asleep for weeks. At last, a situation where I can do something. Skulking around in these caverns affords entirely too much time to think. I have never been sure of the wisdom of this quest; I grow less so by the day. But when I am faced with a mass of orcs, my course of action is clear. When an an enemy lies at my feet, I know I have at least protected my friends.  
  
The door falls inward at last and the ragged, sneering horde floods the room. I charge forward with a shout and meet a spike-armored orc face-on. I shove it with my shield, then quickly follow with my sword when it stumbles back. The familiar shock travels up my arm as the edge bites into orc flesh, and I know by feel that I have cut deep enough to kill. I am already turning to find my next opponent as I withdraw the blade.  
  
*******  
  
ITHILIEN  
  
I am relieved that it is orcs this time. It is much more painful to kill men.  
  
My scouts reported a force nearly equal in size to our company, moving southwest. At a guess, they are heading toward Osgiliath to cause mischief there. We are determined that they shall not reach it. They are traveling overland by night and will almost certainly need to ford the stream here.  
  
Our lookout gives a whistle and drops lightly down from a tree. He is only eighteen but has already seen more battles than I had at his age. "They're crossing the big clearing on the far side now," he tells me quietly as he picks up his bow, which he had left leaning against the trunk. I nod and signal to the rest of my men, then step back to my own position. I reach back to draw an arrow from my quiver.  
  
I prefer shooting to sword combat, but the bow brings with it a terrible element of choice. I am the one to select my victim, to decide that he and no other must die. So I make sure to choose each one for a reason. Choose the one who is closest to our line, to keep him from harming my men. Choose the one who is directing the others, in hopes that they will do less damage without his guidance. Choose the one who is before me as a clear shot, for each one killed will not trouble us again, and if my shot is clear I know I can make his death swift.  
  
In one of my first battles, I missed my aim and shot an orc in the gut. I saw him go down, writhing. Remembering that stomach wounds cause the slowest and most painful of deaths, I wasted precious time and a second arrow to finish him off. I was soundly chastized for it by the captain later: "Don't waste your mercy on orcs, lad!" he scolded.  
  
"I only thought--" I began.  
  
"Think of your fellows first! Do you want them to be carved up while you dither? When an enemy is down, he's no longer a threat. Leave him."  
  
I took his advice to heart, but I also worked hard on improving my aim so that I could be sure to kill in one shot.  
  
I can hear the orcs approaching now. My focus is growing sharper, my body becoming taut as my own bowstring. When it is all over I know I will be weary, but for now I will do what must be done.  
  
The first orcs emerge from the underbrush, four or five abreast in a ragged line. I nock my arrow and draw it back, waiting, letting more of the line emerge. When the leaders have reached the halfway point of the stream, I let the arrow fly at a clear shot. The orc pitches forward into the water and several others follow almost instantly, shot by my men. I am already choosing my next target as I reach back for the second arrow. 


End file.
